TICKING CLOCK

I am sure that my clock is alive.
In the hallway it ticks
in a quizzical way
and it simply does not measure time.
It clinks and it clunks
and its hands wheel and spin
and its gears pop and chuckle and chime.

Quite alive is my quizzical clock,
and there's something amiss
in the way that it works
but I simply don't, really don't mind.
I can listen for days
to the way that it ticks
and it pops and it chuckles and chimes.

Yes, my clock is alive, is alive,
and each tick and each tock
and each clink and each clunk
is a riveting moment in time.
And my quizzical heart
beats along with the clock,
with each pop and each chuckle and chime.

I'm in love, I'm in love with my clock
and I think and I've thunk,
as my hands wheel and spin,
that I'm losing my quizzical mind.
Now my clock and I stand
side by side in the hall
and together we pop, chuckle, chime.

—Mark McLaughlin

Mark McLaughlin is the editor of The Urbanite.



All rights to this poem belong to its author.

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